And she’s scared.
Sometimes the Ugly Bar surprises me.
She starts for the door. The Mother blocks her way.
I nod casually toward the Roothog’s pizzle. “He’s good with that,” I say.
“Let me out of here!” She tries to maneuver around The Mother, who moves to the side, blocks her again.
“You want another drink?” I’m trying not to laugh.
“I want out of here!”
“Then why did you come in?”
She looks at me, doesn’t answer. I’m the only one she’s really spoken to, and she thinks that’s established some sort of relationship between us, she thinks I’ll feel sorry for her and take pity on her because I’ve looked into her eyes, but she doesn’t know shit about the way things really work.
I stroke my codpiece. “I’ll take you,” I say. “I’ll even hurt you if you want.”
“Let me out of here!”
“No.”
The flatness of my refusal throws her. Did she have lipstick on when she came into the bar? It’s gone now. Her lips are thin and dry. There’s a tic starting in her left eye.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” she says. “There’ll be a lot of people looking for me. A lot of people. You don’t know who I am—”
“I know who you are,” I say.
She stops, stares at me, and what little color she has left drains from her face, leaving it a beautiful porcelain white.
“Come on,” I say.
I take her hand. It’s soft, thin, I can feel the bones. I start to pull her toward the door to the Back Room.
“I—I’m having my period,” she lies.
I grin at her. “The more blood the better.”
“Oh God … Oh God … Oh God …” She’s crying. Scared and frightened. Runny mascara tears. Clear snot. She doesn’t look much like a pop star now.
“Please …” she begs, sobbing.
And I lead her into the Back Room.
The waterbed is filled with sperm and blood, piss and placenta, but I don’t take her to the bed, I take her to the table and strap her into the stirrups. She is pliant and pliable at this point and I can do anything I want with her. She looks around, takes in the bones and the babies, the devices and the animals. Dazed, she tentatively touches the sticky wall next to the table with a finger, slowly puts the finger to her tongue as I strap her in, then she’s gagging, spitting so she won’t puke, and Liz comes and licks the spit off her face, off her mouth.
She struggles, squirms, and Liz slaps her face. Five times. Quickly.
The games have begun.
The pop star looks at me, mouth open, nose bleeding, eyes teary.
“Make a fist,” I order.
She does, and holds it up, and Ginjer jumps on top of it, sliding slowly down, already slippery wet. The pop star reacts instinctively, cries out in disgust, tries to shake Ginjer off, but Ginjer’s cunt is like a steel trap and she’d clamped on tight and not letting go and she starts spinning, round and round on the pop star’s arm, squealing wildly with each successive climax.
“Get if off!” the pop star screams. “Get it off!”
But Ginjer’s still spinning, and the juice dripping down the pop star’s arm is starting to mix with blood.
I’m not sure if it’s Ginjer’s blood or the pop star’s.
The Roothog steps up, pizzle in hand, starts whipping her with it.
She’s screaming. More fear now than pain, although that will change.
Ginjer’s already ground off the fist, and blood is streaming down the pop star’s arm. Her chest is bruised purple by the pizzle.
They all want in on it, all the patrons of the bar. I’m not greedy, I’m willing to share, but her mouth is mine. I’ve earned it. I stake my claim, pointing, and there are no objections. Zeke holds down her forehead, while I bust out her teeth. She stops screaming, fainting I think, but that makes no difference to what I want to do. There are shards of teeth left, and I clean them out with a piece of bone. Her mouth is filling with blood, just the way I like it, and she comes to, gagging, and I open my codpiece and take out my cock, and start feeding it to her.
Her bladder lets go, but Liz is there to bathe in the spray.
It’s gone too far, I realize. She’s not going to make it. I wanted to leave her changed, marked, not dead, but there’s no turning back now, and if that’s the way it’s gotta be, that’s the way it’s gotta be. Fame or no Fame. There are no exceptions.
Everyone’s the same in the Back Room of the bar.
We take our time, and she’s alive for much more of it than I would have thought, but eventually we finish her off, and by the time it’s all over and done with there’s not even much of her body left.
What remains is thrown in the slush pile.
We celebrate with drinks.
They come in later, official representatives of the Law outside, looking for the pop star, but no, officers, we haven’t seen anyone matching that description. Lemme look at the picture. Nope. Haven’t seen her. Any of you seen someone like that in here?
There is a slit-eyed older lieutenant in on the hunt, a Harvey Hardass, a faded jaded seen-it-all, and I catch the eyes of the other regular patrons, see the nods and the smiles, and I look again at the cop who thinks he’s seen everything.
His friends are already moving away, out the door.
I nod to the Others, letting them know that they’re to snag him if he tries to leave.
I look at him, catch his eye.
Confused, maybe a little frightened, he looks around the darkened room, then back at me.
I grin.
Welcome to the Ugly Bar.
The Sooner They Learn
Wrath James White
“The Sooner They Learn” was first published in his collection
Pain is the nervous system’s primary indicator that we are doing something that might compromise the integrity of our bodies. It prevents us from destroying ourselves. To not know pain is to not understand what it takes to survive and succeed. Darrell was an educator, a teacher of pain. He had a warehouse of agonies concentrated within him that he needed to share, to diffuse amongst all those who had yet to know it, those who needed to learn.
The boys walked past Darrell, followed by the pungent aroma of tobacco. They were perhaps only eight or nine years old. Way too young to be smoking. The larger of the two boys held out a pack of Newports to his shorter friend as he coughed and choked on the coffin nail dangling from his own lip. He was obviously not used to smoking. Perhaps he could still be saved? Darrell began to follow the two boys, listening to their conversation, looking for the perfect opportunity to issue his sermon.
“Hey Sam, take a hit off this,” the larger boy said, shoving the pack of Newports into his friend’s hand.
“Naw, Joey. You know I don’t smoke. Besides, my mom would kill me if I came home with my breath smelling like an ashtray.”
